


drumbeat

by vehlr



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Discussion of feelings, F/M, Female Character of Color, Surprising Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 16:05:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6572863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vehlr/pseuds/vehlr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enitan Hawke knows when something feels right. She just isn't sure that this thing with Varric actually <i>does</i> yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	drumbeat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [typhooning](https://archiveofourown.org/users/typhooning/gifts).



Enitan Hawke knows one thing with certainty. It is strange, this… thing, growing between her and Varric. She is not quite sure what it _is_ , but she knows it is strange.

She sits with her legs crossed, the drum nestled in her lap as she taps out a faint rhythm against its side with her slender hands - _rata-tata-rata-tata_ \- quiet enough not to disrupt the dwarf’s steady writing, but strong enough that her reddish-brown curls bounce with the motion. It centres her, focuses her thoughts, something she finds strangely lacking whenever she is around Varric these days.

But then, she supposes, she is rather preoccupied with the desire to kiss him again.

It had been a rather sudden thing, in the end - after his easy charm had fallen against her blunt nature and they had felt each other out, she found herself taken by his stories and clever manner. She wonders what he saw in her - perhaps her steadfastness in the face of a world bent on tearing her down, or her refusal to bow to failure.

She did not think it had been her looks, given their rocky start. His eyes did not linger on her tight curls tied up on top of her head, nor her coppery-brown skin, the almost-glossy tone thanks to the bright Kirkwall summer, nor on her towering height - even for a human, she found herself almost a head above the crowds. He did not seem fascinated by her eyes, as her mother seemed to think a suitor might - though she could hardly blame him, finding nothing of interest in the particular murky shades she found in them.

Of course, _his_ eyes were a different matter - his broad stature, his silky smooth locks… all tempting, in their way, but put together with his rakish smile and wit? Of course she had thought about it.

Either way, he had been extremely receptive to the feel of her lips against his when she had kissed him, all but shoving him up against the door and her hands in his hair as his own had found a natural fit around her waist.

“I’m - look,” she had said, breathless but firm, “if you don’t want this, just say so. But I won’t - I won’t apologise for being bold. It’s who I am.”

He had grinned up at her. “I’m not complaining.”

That had been four days ago, and since then her mother and brother had kept her busy - what with the deeds to the Amell estate and a surprising revelation about the daring escape of their father from the Circle, this evening catching up with Varric was overdue.

He was her friend, regardless of… well, of whatever else he might be.

His voice breaks through her thoughts.

“Junior drank a lot,” he says gruffly. “Everything okay with him?”

“His birthday is coming up.”

“Ah.”

She had told Varric, months ago, about Bethany and the path that had brought them to Kirkwall - her fingers faltering against the drum as she sung of her sister’s death, of the rhythm that had ceased that day. Varric had been kind, even back then. Perhaps he had accepted it as explanation for her short words. She supposes he knows better, now.

“You want to talk about it?” he asks.

“No.” She sighs as he tilts his head slightly. “Not today,” she amends, before hauling herself from the floor, the drum tied to her back with care. “I should get going.”

“I’ll walk you.”

“I _can_ look after myself, you know.”

“I know.”

“The Templars don't patrol -”

“Hawke.” He smiles crookedly, and something in her stomach jolts. “Maybe I just want to spend a little more time with you.”

“Fine.”

It is a short walk from the inn to Gamlen’s home, but their pace is slow in the crisp night air. She wonders if she should hold his hand. Instead her fingers drum against the strap across her chest. _Tap-tatap-tatap._ She wonders if she should kiss him again. Instead, she casts around for conversation.

“Has Bartrand found enough men for our expedition?”

Varric hums. “Just about. He still needs someone to lead it, seeing as I’ve fallen out of favour.”

“Because of me?”

He smiles slightly. “Not _everything_ is about you, Hawke.”

“It often seems to be.” She sighs heavily. “I suppose it was foretold.”

“What do you mean?”

“My father chose my name with great care. Enitan. It means, in the Common tongue, ‘person of story’.”

Varric smiles, slow and wide. “You’re telling me it means _protagonist?_ ”

She rolls her eyes, shoving him. “Shut up, Tethras.”

“I’m just saying, Hawke, this is _clearly_ a sign that I should write a book about you!”

“ _Tethras_.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll convince you, one day.”

They continue walking in silence, until she breaks it with a question. “What does _your_ name mean?”

“What, Varric? If my mother was to be believed, it means ‘little shit’.”

She snorts at that. “Believable.”

“Thought you'd say that.”

They linger at the steps up to the hovel, her fingers stilling as she looks up towards the windows - dark and quiet, as she knew it would be.

“Hey.”

His voice pulls her attention back to him, his smile soft.

“You can always stay with me, you know that, right?”

“W-what?”

“It must be hard, all of you crammed in there. If you need a break… well, I'm just saying. Offer’s there if you want it.”

She blinks. “You've a funny way of asking me to bed,” she says, before she has the chance to bite her damned tongue. _Too bold, always too bold._

Varric, thankfully, chuckles. “What can I say? I'm a funny kind of guy.”

She kisses him, pressed up against the wall, and ends up walking back to the inn to sleep in his arms.

*

They settle into a strange routine - days spent scrounging up coin or helping out yet another of their friends with an insurmountable problem, and evenings spent in the inn losing coin in card games and drinking just enough alcohol to forget the aches of the day. Sometimes, they end up laughing uproariously together, other times the melancholy sets in and they tell each other their stories by way of explanation for their moods. Sometimes, brandy-warmed breath on the back of her neck leads to a tumble in the sheets - or against the dresser, or over the desk. Rarely she finds herself wanting.

And yet still, that feeling of unsure footing, that arhythmic beat she cannot quite follow. It tugs at her, questioning everything, and more often than not she leaves Varric in his bed.

She expects him to ask - she would ask, in his situation, would not stand for it, would demand answers. But he accepts her back every evening with a kind smile.

Still, she does not want to explain her inner turmoil, instead taking out the frustrations on whoever happened to demand something of her that day. Sebastian suffers for mentioning the peace he had found within the Chantry walls - not a lecture she was willing to sit through at the best of times. A band of mercenaries she had struck a deal with days before end up dead and scattered across the coast for the merest suggestion of insulting her brother.

As she pointed out later, they had still gotten paid. Varric had looked at her funny, but said nothing. She was thankful for that, tired of words for one day.

*

It is a week before he says anything - a week of snapping and fighting anything that hindered her, a week of wondering about his touches and questioning his words, a week of feeling lost. Enitan takes comfort from the one thing she can.

_Tat-rata-tata-rata-tat-tat-rata-tata-tat-rata-_

“So. Ready to talk about it?”

She is sat in the middle of his bed, a bottle of something strong and sweet-smelling wedged inelegantly between her knees as her fingertips rattle off an irregular beat. She stills, looking up at him.

Varric shrugs. “You don’t have to. But I’m worried about you. You’ve been hugging that drum more than usual.” He sits on the bed next to her, not quite close enough to touch. “And I keep waking up alone. Doesn’t take a genius to see the two are connected.”

She shrugs. “I needed to think. It’s easier with this.”

“Did it belong to -”

“No, my father’s drum was buried with him.” She smiles slightly. “He helped me make it, though.”

She had been struggling, that day, to control her gifts. In a bid to distract her, Malcolm had taken all three children out to make their drums. Enitan’s had ended up larger and louder than even his, and he had laughed. _Your drum is a part of you_ , he had explained, _do not be afraid to embrace that._

And in the end, he had been right. Loud and large, even before the world had given her cause to bite back. She runs her thumb over the binding, the smile fading.

“Varric, have I ever told you what the drum is for?”

He shakes his head.

“My father, he was a storyteller.” Her fingers trail over the drumskin, careful, always careful. “He taught me how to tell my story, how to say the things I could not manage with the Common tongue. To tell my truth. It is who I am, where I have come from… but most importantly, where I am going.”

With lightning speed, she taps out a trilling beat, thumb and fingertips rolling over the skin before her palm comes down on the edge of the drum.

“But your stories aren’t like that. Your beat is found in the swill of bad ale, your truths hidden behind layers of language, and the tale is told to ensnare and sway.”

“Not always,” he says, but he leans back, shrugging. “My stories aren’t _mine_. They’re about everyone else. That’s the difference.”

“I need one of your stories to be true,” she murmurs. “I need one true story from you, to know that you can be straight with me.”

“I’m _always_ straight with you, Hawke.”

“Don't bullshit me, Tethras.”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat. “I'm _not_. I don’t lie to you, not ever. Exaggerate, maybe. Inflate, when the story suits it. But it’s always the truth.”

“And what is the truth?” Her hand splays over the drum, the contrast of her brown flesh against the faded cream goatskin an old comfort even now. “What _is_ this?”

His hand is warm over hers, the soft hiss of his thumb drawing over the drumskin. “Something good,” he says softly. “Something I want to explore.”

“Will you be a part of my story, or is this just a cheap fuck for you -”

“Hey!”

“Oh, come on. I’ve heard _other_ stories - stories about cute little dwarven tavern-girls.”

“You’re _not_ a tavern-girl.” He shifts forward again, lifting her chin with one hand. “Hey. Look at me. This isn’t like that for me.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No. You’re… you’re Enitan Hawke, you’re brash and bold and you drum out a beat that I want to follow.” He smiles up at her. “You haven't noticed it, have you? The way I hold Bianca when we're ferreting out a lead.” At her confused look, his fingers rap out an idle beat, slower than most of hers but steady, constant. “I do this, against the handle.”

“Really?”

“I didn't realise until Daisy pointed it out. And I only seem to do it when you're tapping your staff along the floor.” He continues, the soft _pat-pat-patapata-pat_ against the back of her hand. “I'd say I don't know why, but I think it's obvious that I do.”

She can feel the ache in her chest easing, that soft beat soothing her, calling to her own rhythm.

“Not just a tavern-girl?” she murmurs, and he chuckles, bringing her hand to his mouth.

“Definitely not,” he assures her, kissing her knuckles. The gesture makes her head swim, giddy with relief that this feeling was not to be thrown away once boredom set in.

That his rhythm drummed with hers, that they could beat in time… it was heady, warming.

“Varric… you did not have to tell me -”

“Hey, _I’m_ the talker,” he teases. “You’re the one always saying she’s better with actions.”

She laughs, hand reaching out to bunch around his tunic. “Suppose I should prove it,” she murmurs, tugging him forward into a lingering kiss that shuts him up far more effectively than she had thought - and _far_ more satisfyingly.

**Author's Note:**

> To typhooning: Thank you for such an interesting request! It was a real step up for me in terms of a character's identity, and I really hope I have done something respectful and enjoyable - Enitan's voice is one I have come to adore, and I hope you like her too!


End file.
